Incident of the Drunken Drover Part 2
by Ash10
Summary: Aftermath of "The Drunken Drover" finds Jim Quince coming to a life-altering conclusion.


Incident of the Drunken Drover, Part 2  
  
"Boredom is the most common problem on a long trail drive. Coupled with loneliness it can be a combustible combination. For a trail boss it's hard to know when the drovers might reach a breaking point; sometimes the signals aren't so clear as a man might hope; sometimes he's just not payin' enough attention. On this drive I learned that the hard way. I'm Gil Favor, trail boss and if I've learned one thing pushing cattle it's that I haven't learned anything at all!"  
  
---- "No man fights my battles for me! Stay the hell outta this, Quince or so help me...!" Pete Nolan wiped a bloodied nose back across his shirt sleeve, his attention now focused not on his opponent, but on Jim Quince. This shift of attention was not lost on the other fighter who took the opportunity to land a sharp left jab directly into Nolan's unprotected gut. On his knees and out of breath, Pete feigned worse injury, drawing the unsuspecting fighter closer, nearer. Nolan exploded up from the ground, his tightly strung muscles primed for one last blow. When the uppercut was delivered, the fight officially came to an end. Rawlins hit the ground and stayed there, his big mouth silenced, at least for the time being.  
  
Pete stood over the downed man, breathing heavily, blood from his nose dripping unnoticed onto the ground. He didn't want this fight; didn't start it, but he damn well knew who was going to finish it and did. His anger spent, Nolan turned around to face Jim Quince. "Don't butt in where you ain't needed."  
  
"Rawlins is twice yer size. I only figured to...."  
  
Pete shook his head. "Just don't, Quince."  
  
Ever since Jim Quince failed to keep Pete from being brutalized and very nearly killed by two drunken, out of control drovers named O'Neill and Howard, he figured he had to somehow make things up to the scout even though Nolan never felt anything needed making up for. Pete never blamed Jim because Jim hadn't failed him – Jim had failed himself. To Pete it was that simple. To Quince it was anything but.  
  
Rowdy Yates walked over to survey the damage. He'd been there when the fight commenced; had heard the remark that started it. If Pete hadn't handed Rawlins his ass in a basket Rowdy would've gladly taken the drover to task.  
  
The disagreement began when Pete rode up to Rawlins, relaying orders to take over the flank from Joe Scarlet. Rawlins' comments were totally uncalled for, rude and disrespectful to a man higher in authority than himself.  
  
"White men don't take orders from no breed!" Rawlins had replied, deliberately ejecting a long string of tobacco juice across Pete's chaps, saddle skirt and horse.  
  
Nolan's face had gone stone cold white at the taunt and without warning Pete sprang from the saddle at Rawlins, taking the bigger man with him to the ground. The rest was fight history.  
  
Rowdy rolled a quirly, handing it to Nolan who accepted the smoke and a light. "Couldn't a done much better myself, Pete," he announced, smiling over the damage perpetrated against a large man in the wrong, by a slighter man in the right.  
  
"What do you mean 'much better'? You couldn't a done better and you know it, Ramrod." Pete inhaled in satisfaction. On the ground Rawlins groaned, trying to come to.  
  
"Why'd he say that anyhow...about you bein' a breed? Where'd he get such a notion?" Yates asked.  
  
Nolan only shrugged, "Beats me."  
  
"Best get outta the way boys. That drover's wastin' valuable work time lazin' around the way he is, but I'll fix that right up!" Wishbone upended half a bucket of dirty dishwater onto Rawlins upturned face. He came awake sputtering and cursing. Wishbone beat a leisurely retreat grinning from ear to ear. "He needs any more help gettin' back to work, you boys let me know!"  
  
Instead of Rawlins being silenced by the shellacking he took at Nolan's hands, he continued to taunt and bait the scout every chance he got. Making matters worse, he spread the lie to anyone who would listen and drovers with nothing else to occupy what little spare time they had were eager for a bit of gossip – at another man's expense. The lie was embellished, colored and flavored by Rawlins' imagination to the point where even men who knew Nolan, had ridden the trail with him going on three years, were feeling the allure, the titillation of Rawlins' stories. The larger the group gathered, the bolder and broader the lies were painted.  
  
In less than a week the only cowboys left who did not believe Rawlins' yarns could be counted on the fingers of one hand. At first Gil Favor thought the tales would die down on their own; that if he made a big to-do about matters it would only inflame the lies and make things worse. Finally the day came when he could no longer look the other way.  
  
Drovers clustered around Rawlins while he ate the noon meal, hanging on his every word like he was preaching the gospel, well after break time had passed.  
  
"What the hell is this, the ladies' sewin' circle?" Favor bellowed. The hands scattered, dumping plates and cups into the dishpail, all but Rawlins who took his own sweet time, swallowing down the last drops of coffee; soaking up the last bit of gravy with a crust of biscuit.  
  
Gil walked over, a look of disgust plain on his face. "I catch you takin' up the men's time with your lies and bullshit, I will leave you out here in the middle of nowhere in nothing but boots and spurs and I am just the man to do it!"  
  
Rawlins stood up, eyeing Favor from the crown of his hat to the heels of his boots. In height he was no match for the boss, but in weight and girth Favor was downright puny in comparison. The unspoken challenge was given; the gauntlet thrown down.  
  
"When, and in your case, if, Sedalia is reached, I will gladly give you the fight you're after. Until then, keep your lies to yourself and your mind on your work." Favor offered the man a fine view of his back as he walked over to his horse and stepped up into the saddle. He felt Rawlins' gaze burning a hole through his shirt, right between his shoulder blades. Gil kicked the roan into a trot. He had to find Pete.  
  
Locating the scout ate up most of the afternoon. Nolan was restless and curious – always needing to see what was around the next corner, over the next rise; often using up two or three mounts in the course of a day.  
  
"I need you to scout ahead, maybe sixty miles. I'm tired a wonderin' if there's good grass and water more than just one day in front of us. I'd like to be able to sleep nights without wonderin' if we're gonna run into any surprises."  
  
Nolan nodded. "Can I ride back to camp and pick up some grub?  
  
"Sure. I'll ride along."  
  
Back at camp Wishbone was well into cooking supper. The rich smells of roasting veal and baking biscuits got Pete's mouth to watering. He dearly wanted to sit down to a good meal since his stomach was more or less back to normal, but the boss seemed anxious that he get started as soon as possible.  
  
While the scout loaded supplies into his saddlebags, Wishbone noticed the longing glances Pete cast toward the veal. Bending over the fire, the cook opened the Dutch oven and removed two light golden biscuits. Using a sharp knife he sliced off several thin pieces of crisp-skinned veal which he sandwiched between the biscuits. These he handed to Pete. His reward was a pleased grin.  
  
"Thanks, Wishbone! I'll just sit down here a minute." Pete pulled up a crate and went to sit down near Toothless who was nursing, what else, but a bad molar. Without a word the drover got up and walked off. Pete didn't seem to notice, but Mushy did, pointing out the slight to Wishbone.  
  
"Don't say nothin' about it, Mushy; just let it pass."  
  
To his credit, Mushy did let it pass, but seeing Mr. Nolan treated badly bothered the young man and no matter how long or how hard he thought things through, he never understood why and that was just one more thing to his credit.  
  
---- For some time Boss and Ramrod sat silently observing the cattle and drovers and they passed slightly below and beyond their position. Favor rolled a cigarette, passing papers and tobacco to Yates who did the same. Rowdy was fidgety, anxious and needing to know the reason the boss sent Pete out on so long a scouting expedition. This was rough country, Comanche country and it wasn't like Favor to put the scout into danger without ample cause.  
  
"With Pete outta the way for a while the gossip'll die down. If Rawlins has got nobody to antagonize, he'll give the lies a rest."  
  
Rowdy, on the other hand, seemed skeptical. "Uh, I dunno, Boss. Rawlins is a wrong jasper – a troublemaker for the worst reason and that's no reason that I can see! Why start on Pete? I don't get it and I don't get Rawlins, but it's my bet he won't stop spinnin' those whoppers just 'cause Pete ain't here!"  
  
"So you know Rawlins is a liar?" Favor inhaled deeply, blowing a single perfect smoke ring and then another, waiting for Yates to answer. It was taking more time than Gil thought, after all, the question was simple.  
  
"Rawlins is a damned liar!" Rowdy ground the quirly out against the pommel and gave Favor a sharp accusing look. "Don't tell me you got doubts?"  
  
Gil shook his head, "Nope, none. I just wanted to hear out loud where you stood." Favor tossed aside the last bit of his smoke. "You gonna sit there thinkin' deep thoughts or get back to work?" Favor kicked his horse into a trot. Without turning around he knew Rowdy followed.  
  
---- Jim Quince wasn't known as a deep thinker, but as the days passed he realized more and more that was just what he was becoming. Perhaps it had something to do with his mind not being occupied by schemes of where to get a drink or when or how. For the first time in years, since probably the first weeks of the war, Jim Quince did not think about getting drunk. What occupied most of his waking hours now was Clete Rawlins' unreasonable desire to ruin Pete Nolan's life. "Why? Why is he doin' it? There's gotta be a reason. Whata you think, Joe?"  
  
Joe Scarlet shrugged. For about the hundredth time that day alone Jim had pestered him for an answer, but Joe didn't get angry with his long time friend. Mostly it just wasn't in Joe Scarlet to get angry at all though he was getting fairly close to it when it came to Rawlins. Joe was just happy Quince was more his old self; talkative and lively instead of morose and withdrawn and if that was because he was focused on someone else's problem, so be it. "I reckon Clete Rawlins is just what Rowdy says he is, a bad jasper. He don't need a reason for what he does."  
  
Quince vigorously disagreed. "Oh, he's got a reason and I'm gonna work out jest exactly what it is. It's a puzzle, don't 'cha see, Joe?" Jim nodded to himself, a satisfied grin brightening his face. "It's a puzzle and I'm gonna solve it!"  
  
With Pete away, Rawlins was slightly less vocal with his slander, but that was due mostly to Gil Favor and Rowdy Yates dogging his every move. However, even the eagle-eyed trail boss and his trusty ramrod couldn't be everywhere all the time. Rawlins served up gossip the same way Wishbone served up food and to a crowd of drovers just as hungry for one as the other. By the time Pete got back, the men were primed and ready.  
  
Nolan's return was met with mixed feelings. Mushy, Wishbone, Gil Favor, Rowdy, Hey Soos, Quince and Scarlet seemed delighted to see him, perhaps a little too exuberant in their welcome, as if to make up for the lack of enthusiasm shown by the rest of the men. Back slaps, smiles, laughter, jokes all made him feel uncomfortable; just sort of too much of a good thing.  
  
The others, helmed by Rawlins, gave him a wide berth coupled with side-long furtive glances and under-the-breath insults as to his heritage, his trustworthiness, his reason for living and on and on. Around the campfire that evening when supper was all but over, everything came to a head when Rawlins, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the nighthawkers, made an off-color remark concerning Pete's late wife, who just happened to have been Indian.  
  
Pete made a running dive at Rawlins, ramming head first into his most vulnerable spot - the gut. Rawlins hit the hard-packed ground on his back while Pete catapulted over the big man's head, also hitting the ground with force. Nolan was quicker to his feet, but the brawl that ensued was violent, bloody and extended.  
  
The fighters were circled by all hands and bets were made as to who would win and how long the fight would go on.  
  
"Ain't 'cha gonna stop it, Mr. Favor?" Rowdy handed his money to Wishbone to hold. "Five bucks Pete stops Rawlins!" Yates looked sheepishly at the boss. "Uh, sorry, Mr. Favor...but ain't 'cha gonna stop it? That jasper out weighs Pete by a good sixty pounds! Don't 'cha think....?"  
  
"Rowdy, you want me to stop it, but you just bet good money on Pete. Do you really want me to stop it?" Gil was rightfully skeptical.  
  
"I don't want Pete ta get hurt...on the other hand...I want him to beat the tarnation outta that jackass of a windbag!"  
  
Favor nodded. "If things get outta hand, I'll end it. Let's just see where it goes first."  
  
Nolan's face was puffy, one eye half-closed, his nose bleeding, but he was game as they come and every time Rawlins knocked him down, he came back stronger. It didn't take long for the tough fit scout to wear down the heavier man. Winded, legs buckling from fatigue and wide open to his opponent's lightening fast right jabs, Rawlins stumbled around the ring chasing the fleet-footed Nolan while throwing increasingly ineffectual punches. Pete wanted to punish him and he was doing just that.  
  
"His wrist...he's gotta weak left wrist!"  
  
Rowdy turned half-around, staring in disgust at Etbauer. "Why you no good stinkin' piece a...." Yates threw a punch, catching the startled drover on the side of the chin, dropping him like a stone.  
  
Meanwhile, Pete was down, Rawlins' lucky punch catching him in the temple. He lay, spread-eagled, momentarily stunned; just enough time for Rawlins to take advantage of Etbauer's information. He brought the heel of his boot crushing down onto Nolan's wrist. The snap of bone was audible.  
  
Rawlins reached down, grabbing Pete by his shirt front, meaning to drag the pain-dulled scout to his feet to finish the job, but Nolan wasn't out of it yet. Mustering all his strength and focusing on what needed doing, Pete kicked out, catching Rawlins full on the shin with his right boot heel. Screaming in pain and rage, Rawlins released Nolan.  
  
Rowdy waded into the fray with fists flying, accompanied by Quince, Scarlet, Mushy and Hey Soos. Wishbone, seeing an opportunity, got down on hands and knees and wiggled his way through the mass of chap-encased legs to where Pete lay, holding his injured arm to his chest while trying to avoid being trampled by those brawling above. Grabbing Nolan beneath the arms, Wish dragged the vulnerable scout out of the melee and to safely.  
  
Favor, too, was literally up to his neck in the seething mass as he pushed and shoved his way into the center of the fracas. For a split second he thought to fire a round into the air, but as quick as it came, the thought was discarded; the cattle would've surely bolted. Yelling had little effect, so figuring to even his chances of being heard over the incredible din, Gil started punching. Three downed drovers later and the noise level was lowered enough for Favor to give shouting another go.  
  
"Knock it off!" Nearly shoved off his feet by Joe Scarlet, Gil grabbed the cowboy's collar and held on; the repeated "knock it off" nearly deafening the struggling drover. Scarlet quit fighting, stunned into immobility, "now that's more like it," Favor acknowledged, repeating "I said...knock it off right now!"  
  
As if flash-frozen by a sudden blast of frigid winter air, the drovers, en masse, stopped in mid-motion; fists inches from targets, faces frozen in various expressions of anger, fear or triumph; curse words half-spoken.  
  
Favor released Scarlet and faced his audience. "It's over! Break it up! Get to work if you're relievin' the nighthawkers; get some sleep if you ain't!"  
  
However, someone had other ideas and Gil was surprised at who – Jim Quince, battered, bloody, but also jubilant, wanted the floor. "I got somethin' to say, Boss, somethin' I think might jest bring all this trouble to a stop, fer good. Gimme a minute ta say my piece and you'll see I'm right – least I hope I am."  
  
Quince looked so sincere, so eager that Gil couldn't refuse. After all, things couldn't be much worse than they were already.  
  
"The floor, such as it is, belongs to you, Jim." Favor stepped aside. The drovers, still semi-frozen in various poses, thawed out enough to be curious and attentive as Quince pulled up a crate and hopped on.  
  
"I know why Clete Rawlins' been tellin' them lies about Pete Nolan!"  
  
The crowd jeered, but Quince persevered. "Clete Rawlins is a liar! Pete Nolan ain't no more Indian than me! I shouldn't have to be tellin' you that. You aughta know it fer yourselves, but no, you gotta believe a man you hardly know instead a one you've been trustin' – least ways a good half a you – with yer lives for some years now!"  
  
Jim Quince pointed a finger directly at Rawlins, staring him down. "You said them things about Pete sos ta take the heat off yerself! If the men were lookin' sideways at him, they wouldn't pay you no mind and that's exactly what you wanted. It's you who's Indian! You, Clete Rawlins...you're the breed! Now lie some more and tell me it ain't true!"  
  
Rawlins looked about to bolt, but was too tightly hemmed in on all sides to try. He opened his mouth as if to speak, as if to deny what Quince had said, but caught out in the web of lies his glibness vanished. Stuttering, stammering and imploring with appealing looks and gestures to which not a single drover responded, Clete Rawlins knew the jig was effectively up.  
  
"I dunno how Quince found out about me, 'cause I figured I covered my tracks pretty damn good, but what he says is true; I'm half Kiowa. I ain't sorry for what I done to Nolan and I'd do it again if I thought I'd get away with it! It wasn't nothin' personal. I picked him 'cause I figured with that black hair a his and everybody knowin' he's soft on Injuns... least there was a chance I'd be believed. I wanted ta fit in. That's all I ever wanted."  
  
Quince sighed deeply. His bluff had paid off exactly as he'd hoped, yet somehow he didn't feel quite as good about Rawlins being shown up as he thought. Actually he felt sort of sorry for him.  
  
Jim faced Favor. "Guess what happens now is up ta you, Boss." Quince stepped down off the crate and was heartily pummeled on the back by Scarlet, Rowdy and Hey Soos, who beamed their approval, but it was the little wrangler who asked the question to which everyone wanted the answer.  
  
"Senor Jim, how did you know those things about Senor Rawlins? How could you know?"  
  
Someone handed Quince his slightly flattened Stetson which he reformed as best he could before placing the tired hat firmly back onto his head, pulling the brim down low. "I didn't ...not really. I guessed. I thought a lot about it, a lot. Why would a man cause so much trouble for another fella that never gave him reason? He had ta be coverin' somethin' up – protectin' himself." Quince shrugged. "The more I thought about it, the more I knew he was hidin' the truth about himself by layin' it all on Pete."  
  
---- Jim Quince watched Wishbone set Pete's wrist, the drover flinching when Pete flinched, grimacing when Pete grimaced and swearing when Pete swore, all in commiseration. "Hurt like hell, I'd expect," he commented when the worst of it was over.  
  
"Like holy hell,' Nolan ground out from between clenched teeth.  
  
Wishbone offered Pete a drink from his "cookin' wine," but Nolan refused. "Don't think I'll ever drink whiskey again. Had enough a that thanks to O'Neill and Howard. I believe I can do without." Pete appeared slightly green around the gills and Wishbone didn't push it.  
  
Nolan glanced across at Quince, his expression serious. "Thanks, Jim, for what ya did out there. I surely appreciate it." Nolan held out his right hand and the men shook.  
  
"Well, I wanted ta make it up to ya for not bein' there before."  
  
Pete shook his head. "There was no need. I never held that against ya. I always knew it was the liquor."  
  
Quince nodded, adding "Ya know, I thought and thought on Rawlins and on what would make a man do somethin' so evil to another man. And then one day while I was ridin' swing, jest sittin' watchin' the cattle and rollin' a smoke it came to me! It was a...." Quince searched for the correct word. "It was a revelation...like in the bible, a revelation. If I'd a still been on the booze I never woulda seen the answer so clear. I know that now," Quince admitted, "and I won't be forgettin' it neither."  
  
---- To the surprise of all and the disapproval of some, Gil Favor did not send Clete Rawlins packing. After talking the situation over with the party most wronged by Rawlins, Pete Nolan, Gil concluded that the loud-mouthed purveyor of untruths should be given a chance, just one. Good days followed and bad, but it wasn't long before good outweighed bad and Rawlins turned into a decent dependable drover. The men pretty much got used to him being half Kiowa while many a pleasant evening was spent over coffee by Pete Nolan and Clete Rawlins, Rawlins patiently drilling Nolan on his rapidly improving Kiowa vocabulary.  
  
---- "Two weeks out of Sedalia: I remember writing in this journal that if there was one thing I learned pushing cattle it was that I hadn't learned anything.... I did learn something today...I was wrong. Gil Favor, trail boss." 


End file.
